Funny Food Poetry Contest

RULES: A reprieve from heavy subject matter, we ask poets to write a funny poem (2-14 lines) that includes food. You may choose to replace words in a popular song with food or use food in any other way you like, as long as it isn’t inappropriate. Paste your contest submission into the comments section below with your name, city, and state (no need to list your last name or email address if you don’t want to). One submission per contestant. Submissions should be originally written just for this contest. No submission fee.

DEADLINE: June 2 midnight EST. Winner announced June 12.

PRIZE: Official Winner’s Certificate.

JUDGE: Society staff and the Advisory Board will judge (those who choose not to participate in judging may participate in the contest)

Featured Image: “Fruit Basket” by Giuseppe Arcimboldo

Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.”

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Spelt where you when I was walkin’?
Now I run the millet got the whole world talkin’, King Kunta
Everybody wanna red-skinned potatoes, Kunta
Black man emmer also known as farro
Kamut where you when I was walkin’?
Now I run the game, got the whole world talkin’, King Kunta
Everybody wanna store energy in the form of carbohydrates
King Kunta

Both neighbors had a barbeque: burgers, fries and franks.
Potato salad and cole slaw drew happy smiles and thanks.
One neighbor forgot to buy corn cobs, but HIS neighbor bought cobs and some beers
So he got up his might, and very polite said
“Neighbor, please lend me your ears!”

You’re so welcome. And another fantastic (monthly!) English site I discovered is Snakeskin Magazine (Ed. George Simmers) – not a focus on humor but a very interesting aesthetic… And while we’re speaking of the British Isles, the Irish (mostly women’s) poetry site Poethead (Ed. Christine Murray) is intriguing. All of these places publish Americans as well as Brits…

A mango tart broke my heart dark one stormy day
because it said I’d be dead if I touched its glaze,
& lotus cake made me ache late one luckless night
because it cried when I tried taking one small bite,
& once when I slyly spied baklava at tea
a coffee pot boiled and shot liquid hate at me;
exotic sweets, foreign treats,— everything I need
has ever turned sour and spurned sweetness when I plead,

Achoo! Achoo! A cold and the pain of the flu,
No need to fret, attention I’ll get,
My mom knows just what to do.
She turns down my bed, hands me my book,
Then off to the kitchen where she knows she must cook
Chicken soup for her honey, her nose that is runny,
Her bones that are aching, her frame that is shaking,
Her hacking and coughing, achoo!
She boils the chicken, skims off the foam,
Adds the sweet spices that brighten the home,
An onion, a turnip, parsley, and dill,
Celery, carrots; it’s better than pills.
Noodles or dumplings to fill up the pot,
Then hugs and kisses, and how can I not
Feel better this minute, it’s just what I need,
Mom, I love you, you’re perfect indeed.

Pluot, Plout,
The fruit that I knew not,
The one with the crunchy skin,
Yet juicy in the middle;
You’re like a pitted riddle
And our love affair now begins.
Kinder than an apple,
Stronger than a pear,
Better than a mushy banana.
You bury every berry;
You make a man most merry;
In me you’ve a got a new fan – ah,
Pluot, Pluot,
Like Al Pacino’s “hoo-ah,”
You’re strange, unique, and divine.
But lo, how I wish
That my favorite fruit dish
Wasn’t priced at $2.99.

Your lips are luscious – are those cherries
red as poison holly berries?
Your dangly earrings are so grape!
I envy them with mouth agape
in hopes that one might just drop in.
Your nose, your ears, your eyes, your chin
are ripe enough to gobble down –
but then your smile would turn to frown,
and moving on from fruit to cake
I’d suffer from a bellyache.

I’ve become a restaurant critic – a pastime surreptitious,
Disguised as humble patron, private connoisseur of dishes.
But hidden in my briefcase, tucked neatly under table,
Resides a voice-recorder, linked to sugar-bowl by cable.
There within the sugar-bowl, supported by the spoon,
I hide a mini-microphone for comments opportune.

Apple a Day
I’d been eating an apple a day;
I’d peel the green skin and toss cores,
I’d bob for said apples in days gay,
And climb the boughs of fructus fruit
But one day came walking a guest,
And said to me with voice stooped,
“An apple a day keeps harm away,
But sir, please come–look this way!”
Upon the hill and around my farm
The trees were bare to my alarm!

Now if I told you that the icebox spoke
to me, and then I told you at the end
it hummed a tune, just how could I defend
myself, my sanity, if I awoke
tomorrow with my arms around its doors?
A catsup bottle conducts spiral ham
and cheese in symphonic harmony; jam
and mallows playin’ jello with some s’mores.

The icebox said, “At last! You’re home! Enjoy
the heat, the stove is stoked, we’re all alone,
my friend.” “All right,” I said, his voice inside
my head.(I know you think this is a ploy
for sympathy, an act you can’t let slide;
until you see the smoothie play trombone).

I don’t like peanut butter; that’s all that I know.
My psychiatrist says that perhaps, long ago,
a cruel aunt stuffed great quantities down my small throat.
My reply to this statement, I don’t think I’ll quote.
He tries to console me; he says he is sure
that for every neurosis there must be a cure,
and by starting out slowly – a teaspoon a day –
I’ll some day put pots of the vile stuff away.
If he should succeed (oh, that sadistic sinner!),
I will gulp it down daily for lunch and for dinner!
No thank you, good doctor. It’s sad, but it’s true,
I feel nothing but villainous malice toward you,
and when “creamy” or “chunk style” is offered to me
I think I’ll just exit precipitously.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, drunk and weary,
Over many a quaint and dimlit alley of forgotten doors—
While I plodded, barely standing, suddenly I heard a chanting,
As of someone softly ranting, ranting from the darkened doors.
“It’s some other drunk,” I muttered, “chanting from the darkened doors—
Only this and nothing more.”

Only vaguely I remember, for I’d been on quite a bender,
And each alleyway I entered left me lost more than before.
Wishing that the night weren’t over, vainly I had bought an Uber,
Then I walked away more sober—sober for my lost liqueur—
For the sweet and fervent ferment that the brewers name liqueur—
Shameless here forevermore.

And the windy, winding backstreets, when I left behind the taxi,
Filled me with bewilderment—I’d never seen those streets before!
So that now, to get my bearings, I had stopped and stood there staring
At my phone as I was hearing whispers from the darkened doors.
“Just some other drunk I’m hearing whisper from the darkened doors—
This is all and nothing more.”

Now I felt the foolish courage of the drink, and thus encouraged:
“Asshole!” I cried out, “or Madam… show yourself now, I implore!
Walking home and barely standing, I can hear you back there ranting
At a whisper, almost chanting, chanting from the darkened doors—
I can hear you sneaking back there”—and I squinted at the doors.
Darkness there and nothing more.

In that drunken stupor, peering, I stood listening though not hearing,
Dreaming dreams of all the sweetened whiskeys I had drunk before,
And it was three in the morning, so the whiskey wasn’t pouring,
But I thought I felt the warming of a sip of a liqueur.
So I swallowed, but I tasted just the whispered word, “Liqueur!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Down another alley turning, all my thirsty soul was yearning,
When I caught a glimpse of something glinting on the cobbled floor.
“Surely,” said I, “on the cobbled pavement that must be a bottle!”
So I stumbled and I hobbled to investigate it more—
“Don’t be empty,” I implored as I investigated more—
This I said and nothing more.

Reaching down now to the pavement, I picked up a flask of fragrant
Whiskey which was labeled “Raven” from the good ole days of yore;
Not a moment had I waited, not a second longer wasted,
Than I popped the lid to taste it on the street of darkened doors—
Popped the lid and took a swig there on the street of darkened doors—
It was air and nothing more.

Then this fragrant bottle raising my drunk brow into amazement,
I began to shake it and could hear the liquid that it bore.
“Though you taste of air insipid, I can feel you’re full of liquid,”
Said I, and I tried to sip it but it baffled me once more.
“Tell me what the hell you are—this isn’t funny anymore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

I was shocked to hear an answer from this spiritless decanter,
Though it made no sense to me, for who had heard of that before?—
No one else was there to hear it, but who’s heard of any spirit,
Any brandy, beer or claret, any vodka or liqueur,
From a label called “The Raven”?—who has heard of a liqueur
With a name like “Nevermore”?

But the Raven in my fingers didn’t flinch, but ever lingered,
Speaking only that one word, as if that word were all it poured.
Nothing more came from that cistern, not a drop and not a whimper,
Till I scarcely more than whispered “Other flasks have drained before—
This one likewise must have emptied, as my Hopes have drained before.”
Then the flask said “Nevermore.”

Startled by the words it uttered, I replied with slurs and stutters,
“Doubtless that response must be the only draught that it can store.
Some unhappy alcoholic must’ve felt the pain of colic
From imbibing all the tonic which this dire bottle bore—
Till the ballad of his Hope was but a promise that it bore:
‘Not ever—nevermore.’”

But the Raven flask still raising all my brow into amazement,
Now I stopped and took a seat upon the curbside in a court;
Then, upon the concrete sinking, I abandoned hope of drinking;
It was then I got to thinking what this teasing flask of yore—
What this gross, ungodly, gustless, glass, and teasing flask of yore
Meant in gasping “Nevermore.”

Thus I sat and thus I reckoned, while the ghostly bottle beckoned
Me to take another mouthful of the aether at its core.
This and more I speculated, though I was inebriated.
Roadside lamps illuminated the liquescent smoke it stored—
But the evanescent texture and the airy taste it stored,
I would know, ah, nevermore!

Then I thought the stuff grew denser, as if poured from some dispenser
Tipped by waitresses whose footfalls clicked upon the cobbled floor.
“Sot,” I cried, “my God has meant me to imbibe this flask he sent me—
Let it be that dear nepenthe from my memories called liqueur;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and retrieve my lost liqueur!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Sorcerer,” I said, “you tempt me!—tempt me still, if full or empty!—
Whether someone dropped you here or you were blown here by a storm,
More than just a mere decanter, you’re some mystical enchanter—
With your curt and cutting candor, tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there sweetened liquor?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Sorcerer,” I said, “you tempt me!—tempt me still, if full or empty!—
By that god of grapes and wine who makes us merry on the floor—
Tell this thirsty, drunken heathen if, within the distant Eden,
He again shall ever even sip the potion called liqueur—
Sip the sweet and potent potion of ambrosia called liqueur.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“By that word may you be shattered, flask or fiend!” I shrieked, now madder—
“Go on back to where you came from, whether Hell or other shores!
Leave me no deceptive omen! Leave behind your airy potion!
Leave my wretched thirst unbroken!—break yourself upon the floor!
Take your opening from my mouth, and smash yourself upon the floor!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, always tempting, still is empty, still is empty—
In my fingers’ desperate grip as desperation grips my core;
And that bottle has the seeming of a vessel that is teeming,
Full of alcohol and gleaming like a golden sweet liqueur;
And my soul within that bottle that lies floating in liqueur
Shall imbibe it—nevermore!

That’s very humbling. Thank you. Alcoholism can be very tough to deal with, as Edgar Allan Poe certainly knew. It’s good that you escaped the curse, as you say, but it can be just as difficult to see a loved one struggle. I’m honored that the poem has moved you enough that you’re sending it to someone else. Thanks again!

porky pies told by butcher post Chernobyl 5 legs window “just don’t say all from same lamb” Dracula’s heart ache stake steak tartare raises stakes ta-ta horses over the sticks korma on form-er not much warmer than the norm-er vindaloo goes well with vin from Vinnie’s vineyard phall hottest never fails full-fill fallout in mouth Scottish bonnets hottest chilli bonnie red peppers look like Tam O’ Shanters retsina resinates when pine for wine vine pancake Panhandle can handle if panloafy crepes crept over creepy creeps still creeping about feta better if without Danish fetters bara brith fruity broth bar of cake see-food and eat it “Ice cream” I scream as I desert last desert for dessert coffee they can’t make for Evertonian fan Toffee digestif digests the teef scotch-on-the rocks at school carcinogen hard knocks brandy randy cancer agents handy or hand-shandy Metaxas stars Milky Gala-xy Way absinthe makes the heart grow fonder Van Gogh mad if much stronger pan-galactic gargle-blaster at the very laster whole meaty Bill they dairied to pay in full at the heart-attack till

Artijoke

I was Leaning on the Tower of Pizza had a Trifle of the Tower in France don’t eggsaggerate been kebabbed said Pitta a blood doner by magic mushrooms Abrakebabra Open Ses-ame pull my legumes set my pulses racing while full of beans I falafel for you Rosemary sage mage s-parsely gives of her thyme I seed it cumin beware the cancerous tumouric of the nuclear fishin’ Mackerel the Knife in a pickle be jolly hum(er)us an advocateado or 2 of the Sardineistas I should cocoa just teasing the tea leafs see-food and eat it Oliveatea type o-vile writer o-live and let o-live take your veg-an leaf it out get your nut-rition ration not nut-ting chicken out if you’ve got a beef telling porky pies about salmonella rasher than a bake-on butty the silly burgers dont know what’s at steak when the chips are down sits in the taxicabbages practises appeasement with her collieflower dog listens to brocolli and roll and Herb Alpert spinaches it out as long as can so saucy to Tom-ato so pure-eh? Gaerlic ancestry you c-love time to say goodbye tatahini get bakhlava to our ancient Greek tzatzikistry ouzoing re(t)sin-a taramasalata very much

I’m glad to be a Texan; we feast on hearty food.
Smoked brisket and potatoes and slaw are mighty good,
And pinto beans, well seasoned, augment our cooking’s fame;
But if you add cilantro, I’ll pass, thanks just the same.

Old Mexico’s influence can be perceived with ease;
We love our breakfast tacos, with meats and eggs and cheese!
A tangy, spicy salsa is always kept nearby;
But if it has cilantro, I’ll eat my tacos dry.

Give me sage and lavender, and rosem’ry, dill, and thyme;
Parsley has a pungent taste, and basil is sublime.
Chives make a dish more tangy, and mint makes food more sweet;
But you can keep cilantro, that’s one herb I won’t eat!

I am totally with you when it comes to cilantro. This reply is a bit belated, and I hope it will come to your attention. In my opinion, there is nothing better than cilantro to ruin a perfectly good meal or a nice bowl of guacamole. Once (only once) I had a crawdad pie that was actually improved with just a trace (a small trace) of cilantro. You have read a number of my poems. I know this because you have made comments. My metaphysical poems walk a fine line between faith and doubt, as you must have noticed. This is just who I am, a prodigal not always in perfect harmony with his Creator.

Edible
Hello,
Sweet fleshy one
Raised in a rural town
Where locals know your name
Relief has no shame
Stem open doors to remain
Support comes naturally
Water from the moistened soil
Sprouts my roots
My pink skin turns to fire red
A burst from a blushing bloom
My fleshy body ripens
soaks up sweet sensation
The taste is so delicious
Full of mass nutrition
Pick the berries in early day
Before the locals can display

We met in Arizona
In a never-ending summer
A small brazilian lady
Introduced us to one another
Little did I know,
This would be an unhealthy infatuation
I would hide you from all others

My eyes dilated, became hazy
Then steadied
You were breathtaking
I inspected your curves
When you concave and life
Where your soft edges feel best on my lips
I never knew
We looked so good together

What stuck me at first was the way you move
To my tongue you are a vibrant foreigner
You hold a sweetness so potent
You cannot help but spill from you corners
It took some patience, some money
Some trial and error too
But my love, every failed attempt was worth it
To simply partake of you

You must know as the years pulled us away
To the arms of another
Hard times meant artificial substitutes
Which did not satisfy this hunger
When they say you are “no good”
You seem “flimsy and cheap”
Make them sick to their stomachs,
Make them disgusted and leave

This is not their choice, my love
They’ve never known you as I do
You are more than my confection
You are my home I come to

We met up again,
With some wings and chips
I took my time to reintroduce
You soft, honey glaze
To my sugar-starved lips
You outshine every temptation
Every poor excuse
Tonight, we will meet again
It is you
I choose

The man sat at a counter in a restaurant.
He was consuming fluffy and light brown hotcakes
and sausages. He thought, ‘It’s exactly what I want.’
(Nearby, another man was eating some bran flakes.)
He leaned to put some golden-yellow butter on,
and then he poured some syrup, making little lakes.
He struggled briefly with a sausage, in that dawn,
and then gulped it down after forking it good, well.
The sweetened hotcakes melted in his mouth. A yawn
appeared upon his face, a wee trace of a smile.
He gave a tip and paid the bill, then left that spot
content. That satisfaction lasted for a spell.

FUNNY-FOOD-LIMERICK
Both neighbors had a barbeque: burgers, fries and franks.
Potato salad and cole slaw drew happy smiles and thanks.
One neighbor forgot to buy corn cobs, but HIS neighbor
bought cobs and beers
So he got up his might, and very polite
said “Neighbor, please lend me your ears!”